


Brakebills Prep Summer Camp

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, But they’re all upper teenaged, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Magic Camp, Misunderstandings, Teenagers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: “You know how—um—tonight is the final formal?” Eliot nods. “Well, um, the guys have been giving me a lot of crap about not having anyone to go with, and about not dating anyone at all period this entire summer, like not even a single kiss or anything and...and I heard you’re not going with anyone in particular, and—um—I was wondering if you’d be willing to go with me and pretend to be with me?  Like pretend we’re together, just so everyone shuts the fuck up?”— —Queliot Week Day 1: fake relationshipQuentin asks Eliot to be his fake date at the end of summer camp formal, only it’s more complicated than either of them planned for.





	Brakebills Prep Summer Camp

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”  Quentin waits behind after everyone else leaves Magic Arts & Crafts, knowing that Eliot will take a few minutes longer than the rest of their camp-mates, and this would be the best opportunity for him to ask the question that’s been building in his mind for days.

Eliot nods and follows him over to a corner of the room.  It’s Quentin’s first year at Brakebills Prep Summer Camp, but Eliot (and as far as Quentin can tell, most everyone else) has been going there for at least three years, since the summer after they started high school.  By the time Quentin arrived, it seemed to him, everyone had already spent the time getting to know each other, forming cliques, and—now that they’re old enough—that everyone is splitting up into couples. Everyone except for Quentin.  And Eliot, because even though Eliot could have pretty much anyone he wanted for his summer boyfriend, he seems happier stringing a handful of guys along for a few days, then moving on. Or, there is always the rumor that he is dating a counselor, but Quentin thinks—or hopes—that one’s not true.  

Eliot is the best looking teenager at the camp by far, and in fact Quentin is completely sure he’s never set eyes on something so attractive, and charismatic, and smart, in his entire life.  And for some reason, Eliot had always been friendly to Quentin, always seemed happy to talk to him. Not enough to drown out the assholes who bunk in Quentin’s cabin and seem to take joy from nothing so much as trading stories about their camp conquests, and teasing Quentin because he has nothing to tell, but enough to make Quentin’s insides warm and fluttery whenever he sees Eliot.  But in no world, even one that Quentin recently discovered has actual magic, is he good enough for Eliot.

That aside, it’s the day before the day they leave camp, and Quentin has a plan.  He leads Eliot to a corner of the room, brushes his hair out of his eyes, takes a deep breath that does nothing to alleviate how fidgety and nervous he feels, and asks Eliot a question he’s been formulating all week.

“You know how—um—tonight is the final formal?” Eliot nods. “Well, um, the guys have been giving me a lot of crap about not having anyone to go with, and about not dating anyone at all period this entire summer, like not even a single kiss or anything and...and I heard you’re not going with anyone in particular, and—um—I was wondering if you’d be willing to go with me and pretend to be with me?  Like pretend we’re together, just so everyone shuts the fuck up?” He pauses, realizing he’s been rambling way more than he’d planned (so much for the cleverly-worded plan he’d had) and Eliot quirks an eyebrow, considering him.

“It would just be pretend.  Just for the one night,” Quentin hurries to repeat, at the same time as Eliot says, “Okay.”

“Oh, great, awesome, thank you.” Quentin feels giddier than he has any right to, considering it’s a completely fake date.  “This is—thank you, this is great, you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll meet you in front of your cabin at 7,” Eliot says, and walks out of the classroom.  Quentin feels only a tiny bit bad about staring at his ass as he walks away, before the panic of Eliot having actually agreed to this plan sets in, and he has to remember to breathe as he rushes out of the classroom in the opposite direction, heading to his less advanced midday class.

Quentin skips sitting in the dining cabin for dinner, grabbing a sandwich and an apple and retreating to his room to eat, after one glance at the table where Eliot is already sitting with his friends made Quentin’s stomach drop.  He had forgotten to establish with Eliot if they would act couple-y before the social or not, and there’s nowhere else for him to sit. It turns out to be a good idea, because Quentin shares a bathroom with five other guys, and since this is the only real opportunity they’ve had at camp to dress up nicely, he figures everyone will be fighting for the one bathroom mirror.  Returning to the cabin early, Quentin gets in and out before the stampede.

Quentin puts on the nicest button-down shirt and khakis he has (he wishes that he’d known about the formal situation when he’d packed for what he thought was going to be a much different kind of non-magic sleep-away camp situation) and ties his only tie in what he hopes is the correct way.  He makes his hair neat but he’s not really interested in hair products and he doesn’t like his cabin-mates enough to ask how to use it anyway (Penny picks this lack of knowledge out of his mind and immediately starts teasing him, which is just great, and in no way adds to his growing stress level).  Quentin ends up ready too early, so he sits on his bunk and makes tiny sparks with his fingertips until he almost singes his tie, then pulls out a book and tries unsuccessfully to read.

Seven comes much sooner than he expects, somehow, and he’s standing outside the cabin twisting the ends of his shirt sleeves between his fingers when Eliot saunters over.  Eliot most definitely has something in his hair, which makes his curls look shiny and orderly, and he’s wearing dark jeans with a button-down and a vest and tie and he looks comfortable and natural and ridiculously hot.  Quentin’s palms start to sweat.

“Hey,” Eliot says, stopping in front of him.  He gives Quentin a let’s-do-this look and then steps forward and hugs him.  

Quentin can’t help it, he melts into Eliot’s arms a little bit more than he intends to, feeling the muscles on Eliot’s back move under his palms, breathing in the smell of his aftershave or cologne or something, and it’s over much too soon.

“Hey, thanks again, um, for doing this. It’s really helping me out.”

“Let’s go,” Eliot says brightly, taking a second to straighten the knot of Quentin’s tie.  

Quentin tries to remember to breathe, although it gets more difficult when Eliot takes Quentin’s hand (which he really, really hopes isn’t too gross from his nerves).  Quentin nods, and they start walking towards the big barn-turned-event space that’s being used for the social.

When they walk into the barn, Quentin has to admit he’s a little bit impressed.  The barn is free of its usual furniture and filled with silver chairs and tables, which have glowing colored orbs on them instead of candles; there are flowers of all colors growing around all of the walls, apparently just out of the floor, some creeping up up the wood slats; and instead of a stupid disco ball there’s what looks like a curtain of little twinkling stars over the dance floor, which are slowly moving around.  In one corner, there’s a food table, and the counselors are crowded behind it, making what look like tiny birds out of some metal material, which then soar around the room, light glinting off their sides. Occasionally, silent fireworks go off near the ceiling.

Quentin must be gaping, because Eliot smiles and squeezes his hand. “Yeah, they kind of go all out on the showy stuff for this.”  

“I—I can barely make sparks,” Quentin mutters, and Eliot laughs.  

“I can teach you to make the bird things,” he says, leading them forward further into the room. “They’re easier than they look.  And they usually only stay up for a few hours, anyway.”

Quentin nods.  He is incredibly conscious of Eliot holding his hand, and wishes they’d established some rules for how they’re going to act, although Eliot seems completely comfortable so far.  Quentin looks around the barn again, and he can see some people around the barn staring at them, pointing and whispering. Everyone looks impressive, wearing varying degrees of formalwear (or maybe Quentin is just a sucker for a boy in a tie or a girl in a sparkly dress, both of which are here in plenty), but Quentin knows that he’s got the most impressive date—the plan is working so far.

“Wanna dance?” Eliot asks, startling Quentin out of his thoughts.

“Um.” Quentin doesn’t really dance—or he does, but he looks like a complete idiot.  Still, he can’t say no to Eliot, who is still holding his hand and tugging gently towards the dance floor, and who hasn’t stopped to talk to anyone else yet, although Quentin knows he saw Eliot’s best friend Margo standing by one of the tables, wearing the shortest and also lowest-cut dress Quentin has ever seen.

“Sure, yeah, yes, good call,” Quentin replies, rambling again. 

Quentin doesn’t know the music they’re playing, but it has a good beat and Eliot keeps hold of his hand which makes imitating Eliot’s more graceful movements easier.  Eliot is a good dancer, apparently, and even though he’s not doing anything too impressive, he looks really good moving the way he is, and Quentin can’t decide if he wants to watch Eliot’s feet, or his face, or his hips. 

He feels like he’s finally getting the hang of it when the song changes to something slow, and Quentin’s stomach knots as he watches people all around them slip into their couplings, transitioning into positions that range between old-fashioned waltz position and positions almost too lewd for Quentin to feel comfortable looking at.  Quentin and Eliot stand awkwardly for a second. Quentin’s palms are starting to sweat again, and he can’t decide if he wants to keep dancing or if the illusion of them dating will be destroyed as soon as it’s obvious how little Eliot wants to slow dance with him. 

“We can sit it out if you want,” Eliot says, which sounds more like he’s giving Quentin an out than looking for one himself, so slow dancing must actually be okay on the fake date front.

Quentin shakes his head, “Unless you want?” 

Eliot shakes his head and takes hold of Quentin’s other hand, too, apparently easing them into it.  At that moment, Penny and his unspeakably cool girlfriend Kady step onto the dance floor next to them, already pressing close enough to each other that it makes Quentin feel like it’s a direct commentary on how far apart he and Eliot are.

“Damn, Coldwater,” Penny says, “I heard you showed up here with Eliot, but I didn’t really believe it.” 

“Yeah,” Quentin shoots back, “we’re um...”

“Boyfriends,” Eliot supplies, like it’s no big deal, and Quentin’s pulse flutters. “We’re just comfortable enough to not feel the need to flaunt it, until now, unlike some people.” 

He gives Penny a pointed look, and Kady has the good sense to hear it as a criticism of their constant public make out sessions and looks a little bit embarrassed—she still looks like she could kick everyone’s ass if she stops liking the way the conversation goes, but with a tinge of embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Penny says, false enthusiasm dripping from his voice, “I can see how close you guys are, very convincing.”  He pauses, like he’s considering something, and Quentin really hopes Penny isn’t able to read his mind at this particular moment. “Or maybe Eliot’s just ashamed of being with such a loser.”

Quentin bristles, but it’s toothless, because he knows Penny is right.  No one would keep a relationship with Eliot secret unless it was because they were as socially mismatched as he was with Quentin.  Quentin should probably just give it all up, because no one is going to believe Eliot is actually his date, or if they do, it’ll just seem like he took pity on sad, lonely Quentin.  Quentin struggles to think of a comeback, but he can’t seem to find any words.

“Nice try, Coldwater,” Penny smirks, “but Eliot Waugh choosing someone as terrible as you? I’m just not buying it.” 

This time, Eliot responds by pulling Quentin firmly in, wrapping his arms tightly around Quentin’s waist and pulling Quentin’s hands up to Eliot’s shoulders.  It’s your standard middle-school style slow dancing, except that Eliot is very close to Quentin, so that their chests and hips could touch with very little effort.  Quentin takes a shaky breath, tightens his grip on Eliot’s shoulders, hoping it’ll ground him. 

“Fuck off, Penny, I’m gonna go dance with my boyfriend now,” Eliot says, sounding way more angry than Quentin expects, and he moves them further into the dance floor, so that there are people between them and Penny.  

“You okay?” Eliot murmurs, putting his mouth close to Quentin’s ear.  Quentin shivers involuntarily.

“Yeah—um—fine.”  Quentin wants to lay his head against Eliot’s chest, like he’s seen in movies, but he doesn’t want to overstep. 

“Penny’s an asshole,” Eliot says. “And anyone you choose to be with is lucky.”

“Right.” Quentin feels like he’s getting a pep talk, and the fact that it’s Eliot and not his dad doesn’t make it feel any less like a consolation.

Quentin runs one of his fingers absently along the edges and the raised patterns on Eliot’s vest.    He probably shouldn’t, but he wants this to look real, and Eliot doesn’t complain, or jump back. He just kind of pulls Quentin in closer to him, resting his head against the side of Quentin’s.  Quentin has butterflies filling his stomach, but it still feels natural, and romantic, and good to be pressed up against Eliot. It’s all an act, but it’s a good act.

“Trust me,” Eliot mutters, after a moment, so low that Quentin almost doesn’t hear it as the song ends and the music segues into something more upbeat.

It takes a beat longer than Quentin expects, but Eliot lets go of him and they pull slowly apart.  His pulse is still thumping, maybe more now that he can see Eliot’s face again, which looks a little less guarded, a little more considering, than Quentin can remember seeing it.  Maybe the closeness of the dancing caught him off-guard with how good it felt, too. Probably not.

“Um, want to get something to drink, or something?”  Quentin asks, mostly to avoid having to dance more, and because as soon as Eliot lets go of him, his hands feel a little unsteady. 

Eliot agrees and they walk over to the table with food and bowls of punch.  Eliot pours two of those weird little punch glasses full of the pinkish liquid and hands them both to Quentin, then picks up some kind of little puffed food and pops it into his mouth, nodding and piling a bunch of them onto a plate.

He leads Quentin over to a table in the corner of the barn (behind which, Quentin notes with some level of distress, is a tiny pile of the metal birds that have apparently fallen from the sky after their magic wore off).  Eliot folds himself into a chair and follows Quentin’s gaze, nodding sagely.

“Yeah, the bird graveyard is the part they don’t put on the posters.”

Quentin giggles, sitting down next to him and setting the cups on the table.  The punch is fizzing slightly in the cups and Quentin wonders if there is something magic about it, just for the effect.

Eliot grins, seeming to read his mind.  “Not yet.”

He produces a tiny flask from inside a pocket and discreetly pours a little bit into one cup, looking at Quentin questioningly.  Quentin frowns, then thinks, what the hell, and nods. Eliot puts a reassuring hand on his knee as he pours in the second cup, and Quentin would have completely lost his shit if he hadn’t remembered at the last moment that he’s supposed to be accustomed to stuff like this, since Eliot has decided to elaborate their fake date into a full fake relationship.  

Eliot clinks his cup against Quentin’s, and Quentin takes a sip hesitantly as Eliot’s friend Margo sweeps over—it tastes like fruit and fizz and something sweet underneath and it stings his throat a little bit, but Quentin doesn’t hate it.  Eliot quickly pulls his hand away from Quentin’s knee, where it was still burning a hole through Quentin’s khakis, as Margo throws herself down casually on Eliot’s lap. Quentin tries to swallow the twinge of annoyance.

She holds out her own cup of punch, wagging it a little before depositing it on the table so Eliot can sneak some of his flask contents into it.

“Thank god,” she says, sounding both dramatically relieved and irritated, “this party was becoming insufferable.”

Margo is the kind of ridiculously beautiful, incredibly confident girl who everyone is either into or jealous of; in her current position, on Eliot’s lap, Quentin is feeling both.  She pops one of the puff things into her mouth and shrugs. Eliot and Margo often come as a package, but somehow Quentin hadn’t thought of that when he asked Eliot to come with him, and he kind of wishes Eliot would ask her to leave.  At least if she hangs around with them for the whole evening, it will only help Quentin seem cooler (and it will keep him from accidentally overstepping with Eliot any more).

“Don’t you have your own flask?” Eliot asks her, amused.

Margo shrugs.  “I like yours better.”  Quentin smiles in spite of his confused feelings about having her there.

“So,” she looks between the two of them conspiratorially, “this is actually happening! I honestly didn’t think this one,” she gestures at Eliot, who looks suddenly nervous, “would get his shit together before the end of the summer, but I have to say, I approve.”

Quentin’s smile fades into confusion.  “What...what do you mean ‘get his shit together?’” He looks at Eliot questioningly, but Eliot is avoiding Quentin’s eyes and staring into his cup as he takes deep gulps from it.  Quentin takes another drink of his own punch.

Margo laughs.  “Come on, Coldwater!  El’s been in love with you since basically the beginning of the summer so—“

Quentin chokes on his punch and Eliot stands up so abruptly, Quentin is surprised Margo is able to find her footing as she gets pushed off his lap.  Eliot’s face is flushed, and he looks like he’s trying to figure out if he’s going to yell, or run, or apologize and laugh it off. He meets Quentin’s eyes for a split second, and then turns and runs out of the barn, disappearing into the darkness outside.

“El, what the fuck?”  Margo calls after him, brushing down her dress like she actually had fallen on the ground.  She looks at Quentin questioningly, and he swallows. 

“Um, so I actually, um, asked Eliot to pretend to date me, just for tonight, so...” Quentin shrugs apologetically, standing up from the table.

Margo grabs his sleeve before he can walk away, looking incredibly serious.  “But you do actually like him, right?”

Quentin laughs uncomfortably, because it’s a dumb question—of course he does.  “Yeah, obviously.”

“Okay.”  Margo lets go of his shirt, nodding, “then go fucking after him and fix it.”

She makes it sound like this is somehow Quentin’s fault instead of being, well, hers, but before Quentin can reply, she’s walking away, going to talk to someone else.  Quentin takes a final drink of his spiked punch for courage, and hurries through the crowds of campers and out of the barn.

It’s dark outside, save for the dim glow of lights on the front of the various buildings.  They are basically in the middle of nowhere, and Quentin is so used to streetlights and everything else that makes up the bright city ambience, that he mostly just avoids being outside at night since he’s been at camp.  But now he doesn’t really have a choice; not following Eliot isn’t even an option.

He ducks into the cabin where Eliot and Margo live (theirs is somehow the only co-ed cabin), because it at least has a light switch, but he knows before he goes in that Eliot won't be there.  Quentin also knows he won’t be in any of the classrooms, even though those are also well-lit, not scary places. Eliot isn’t from a city, and he doesn’t get freaked out by the darkness, and he told Quentin once that there was a spot in the big grassy field behind the camp buildings where he sometimes went to be alone.  Which means that’s where Quentin has to look next.

Quentin walks quickly into the field, trying not to think about snakes, or whatever else could potentially hide in an empty field to attack and/or bite him.  The grass makes a weird sound under his shoes, and it just increases how nervous he feels; he trips over every rock he passes, but he feels determined to find Eliot.  

After what seems to Quentin like hours of trudging through the field, he sees a person-sized shape sitting on the grass and increases his pace to something closer to a run. 

“Eliot,” Quentin says, panting a little bit, standing above Eliot, who is drinking straight from his flask and sitting on the grass, his vest unbuttoned and his tie askew.

Eliot raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t sound interested when he speaks.  “What do you want, Quentin?”

“I—um...” It occurs to Quentin suddenly that Eliot might not have wanted to be followed, maybe Margo had been wrong about the whole thing and he’d only stormed off because of the implication that he might have actually liked a loser like Quentin, or maybe because she’d implied there was something he actually wasn’t good at. Quentin starts messing with his tie, pulling at it even though it’s already straight, his fingertips running anxiously up and down the fabric over and over again.

Eliot sighs, then gestures to the grass next to him.  “Want to sit? 

Quentin nods and sits down tentatively.  There is actually nothing Quentin wants less than to sit down in a dark field, but his desire to be with Eliot beats out his discomfort with the setting.

Eliot nods upwards towards the sky.  “Look at all the stars, Quentin. It makes the itchy grass worthwhile.”

Quentin looks up, and almost gasps.  It’s so stereotypical city boy to be impressed by stars, but Quentin has never seen so many, so bright.  He’d been so anxious about going outside at night, he’d never thought to look up. It’s startling, and he feels an unnecessary tear prickling in one of his eyes.  He puts his hand down on the ground, to give himself more looking-up leverage, and accidentally lays it right on top of Eliot’s hand. Quentin holds his breath, waiting for Eliot to pull away, but he doesn’t.  Quentin suddenly forgets all about the stars, redirecting his eyes towards Eliot, who is still looking up, but seems to be breathing a little less evenly.

“So, about what Margo said...” Eliot starts, trailing off, as if he’s unsure what he actually wants to say about what Margo said.   

Quentin’s stomach is tying thousands of knots, his pulse in his throat, and he realizes there are two ways out of this: either he can laugh now, and say of course Margo is full of crap, give Eliot an easy out, and walk back to his cabin and leave tomorrow, and probably they’ll never see each other again; or he can be brave and honest and tell Eliot that he, Quentin, has been in love with him since the beginning of the summer, too, and see what happens.  Quentin isn’t very good at being brave, but he sees the first option in stark lines and it feels like something he’ll never recover from. At least if Eliot turns him down, he won’t have the regret of what if following him around his entire life. His hand is still resting on top of Eliot’s.

Quentin takes a deep breath, still looking at Eliot’s upturned face. “Um, about that, Eliot.  I’m—um—I’m in love with you, too—I mean, I like you, at least, a lot but um...” Eliot turns his face slowly towards Quentin, looking guarded and unsure and also, maybe, hopeful.  “What are you thinking?”

Eliot considers him, and Quentin feels himself shrinking under his gaze.  “Why did you pretend ask me out?”

Quentin’s cheeks flush.  “I really did want to put my asshole cabin mates in their places. But also, I wanted to spend time with you?” 

Eliot is fully turned towards Quentin, now, and Quentin is struck by how beautiful he looks, sitting mussed up in a field with no light except for the hazy party lights filtering from the camp, and the dim glow of the stars and moon.  It’s like looking at a painting.

“Why didn’t you ask me out for real, though?”

Quentin laughs humorlessly. “Would you have said yes?”

“Would you? If I’d asked you?”  Eliot counters, staring at him intensely.

Quentin pushes past his hesitation.  “Yes.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a moment.  Quentin can feel Eliot’s hand underneath his moving a little bit, but not like Eliot’s trying to escape, just like he’s trying to decide if he wants to reposition, or just let Quentin keep not-holding his hand.  Eliot looks away, watching some flying bug flutter in and out of the grass a few feet from them.

“Don’t you want to know why I said yes? To the pretend date?”

Quentin nods, remembers Eliot isn’t looking at him.  “Why?”

Eliot turns back, quickly, and when he does, his face is suddenly closer to Quentin’s.  He looks serious, and it’s making Quentin’s stomach leap and somersault. “Because everything Margo said is true.” Quentin sucks in a sharp breath.  “And you’re too good for me, so I figured I should take what I could get.”

Quentin scoffs.  “I’m too good for you?”

Eliot nods, his breathing quick.  They’re very close to each other now, like when they were dancing, and Quentin breathes in the heady smell of Eliot mixing with the grassy outdoors.  Something that might be a cricket starts chirping near them, hidden in the grass.

“You, Quentin, are the best, kindest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”  Eliot leans in puts his free hand on Quentin’s hip, and Quentin can feel Eliot’s breath across his neck, as punctuation.  “And I was too afraid I’d fuck it up.”

“A-and now?”  Quentin’s voice is shaking, his head a mess of Eliot’s words, the feel of Eliot’s breath and hands.  He feels like he’s flying over the field instead of still lying in it. Quentin feels the stars colliding around them.  He can’t believe they’ve left this until the final night of camp.

Eliot pulls back, slightly, so he can meet Quentin’s eyes. “I want to be brave.”

Quentin doesn’t know who leans in first, but in a moment they’re kissing, their lips meeting in the space between them, hungry and soft and needy and perfect.  Quentin has been kissed before, usually at terrible parties he never wanted to go to in the first place, but this is different. This is the grass and the wind and the darkness and the stars and the crickets and Eliot and romance, and Quentin feels like he’s floating and exploding and finding the pieces to knit himself back together in Eliot and it feels different than kissing anyone else.

A brightness cuts through his closed eyes, and Quentin opens his eyes to see fireworks exploding above them in the sky.  It’s like a terrible romantic comedy, and he hates how much he loves it, how much it makes him pull Eliot closer and imagine swelling strings and feel like the center of his story for even just a few minutes.  

The fireworks increase exponentially, and Eliot laughs, and they pull apart just a tiny bit, just enough to take breaths and look at the cluster of fireworks directly above them.  Quentin follows Eliot’s eyes to a spot behind him, where Margo is very indiscreetly tiptoeing away; she gives them a thumbs up as she runs back through the field towards the barn, and Quentin makes a mental note to thank her for the fireworks, even if they’re kind of distracting.  Even if she’s making fun of them, she’s doing it nicely.

“Can we kiss again?” Quentin asks, feeling like an idiot but also wanting to make sure that Eliot is completely on board before he allows himself to let go of his undercurrent of anxieties.  

“Absolutely,” Eliot replies, leaning forward and crashing their mouths together again.

They kiss for seconds, minutes, hours, until the fireworks peter out and Quentin can barely think about anything except kissing Eliot, except how lucky he is (and, just a tiny bit, how pissed Penny is going to be when he realizes Quentin wasn’t bluffing earlier), except how much he wants to stay there, in the grass, pressed against Eliot under thousands of stars.

They stay in the field until the stars are dimming, sunlight starting to creep up over the field, and then they break reluctantly apart, heading into their respective cabins.  Quentin has to sneak inside, and then he spends the next few hours lying on his bed, wide awake, revisiting the events of the previous night over and over in his mind, making memories of Eliot.

He doesn’t sleep before the camp wake-up bell sounds, and everyone rolls out of their beds and starts packing up their belongings.  It doesn’t take Quentin long to pack, and he’s almost disappointed that none of his idiot cabin mates are making fun of him anymore, because at least that would be something familiar to pass the time.  Penny gives him a begrudging nod of acceptance or approval, and Quentin thinks that having Penny’s approval might actually feel worse than facing his judgement.

Everyone gathers by a spot at the edge of the camp where there are special portals set up to drop everyone back in their correct city and state (although they have to sit through a long and boring announcement reminding them how the portals are not infallible and everyone should be prepared to walk a few blocks to their parents’ house, at the very least).  

Eliot pulls Quentin aside after the talk, away from where campers are starting to line up to leave camp, and gives him a quick but intense kiss.  Quentin has never felt worse about having to go home.

“What happens now?” Quentin asks.

Eliot smiles. “We can write, or text, or find some magic communication method that works better.”

“Plus there are always portals,” Margo adds, walking past them beaming smugly.

Eliot nods, even though it’s obvious that neither of them could construct or even find a portal at this point.  The lines to leave are dwindling, and Quentin’s stomach is filled with dread and unhappiness.

“Oh, here.”  Eliot pulls his little flask out of his pocket and hands it to Quentin, who takes it uncertainly.  “Now you have one of my most prized possessions,” Eliot continues, putting his hands on Quentin’s waist, “so we have to see each other again.”

Quentin smiles, leans in for another kiss.  It’s cheesy, and silly, and something out of a terrible teen drama movie, but it still makes him feel something strong and crushing in his chest to have a thing that belongs to Eliot, to hold this piece of Eliot for him, keeping it safe.  It feels like a promise of something, and Quentin doesn’t know what, but he wants to find out.

They pull away, and Quentin steps up towards his assigned portal, stepping through with one last look back at Eliot, and landing in a train station, where his dad is waiting for him to emerge from a platform. When he sees Quentin, he waves and hurries over to grab one of Quentin’s bags.  It’s weird, to be back in normal, where his dad thinks he’s been at some sleep away camp with a stupid name and doesn’t know that magic is real.

“How was camp?”

Quentin thinks about the last twenty-four hours, feels Eliot’s flask cold and heavy in his pants pocket, pressing against his leg. “Best summer ever.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based on my own summer camp memories except with more fake dating and also magic so I hope y’all like it!
> 
> Also I love Penny with all my heart but there’s no way he wasn’t a complete shit as a teenager.


End file.
